


Again an Ending

by mystivy



Category: Marvel Avengers Movies RPF, Thor (Movies) RPF
Genre: Hiddlesworth, M/M, Melancholy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-01
Updated: 2012-12-01
Packaged: 2017-11-20 00:28:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,406
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/579290
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mystivy/pseuds/mystivy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There’s more lazy sex and breakfast and a long afternoon in each other’s arms.  They talk in low voices, and even laugh and joke like they did at the beginning, but underneath all that it feels like another last time.  Another last time in a string of last times, every one of them suffused with melancholy, the sense of an ending.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Again an Ending

**Author's Note:**

> This is kind of a sketch, or a collection of sketches, rather than a finished painting, so to speak. I hope it's a good sketch, though.

They’re close to calling it a wrap for the day when Tom says, “You know, we should get out of London for the weekend.” Cheri is fixing the fall of Chris’ cape and she glances up but says nothing. 

“Yeah?” says Chris. Tom had meant it as a joke—well, half as a joke—but Chris isn’t laughing. He just shrugs and says, “Cool, yeah, let’s do it.” 

Their eyes catch and after a moment Chris smiles that wide, lazy smile and Tom feels it like a charge in his veins. And so they end up on a pale Saturday afternoon checking into some exclusive place a couple of hours’ drive outside the city where no one asks questions and, if people recognise them, they pretend not to. All around them are stretches of rolling grass, and in the distance, the bare, black branches of winter woods.

The room is large and low-ceilinged, with thick rugs spread on floorboards and wide windows looking across the lawns towards the river. There’s a mist rising off the water. The porter has barely closed the door behind him when Chris pushes Tom towards the bed. “This place is fucking perfect,” he says, before stripping him and tumbling on top of him.

“I know,” says Tom, pressing up against him. His breath comes impatiently, his legs already falling open, Chris’ hips snug between them. It’s been too long for either of them to be capable of waiting. They fuck hard and fast and it’s not long before they’re both falling over the edge, falling into each other again.

Afterwards they lie silent, though not uncomfortable. Tom curls into Chris and feels his strong arm wrap around him. Outside, the light is dying and crows are streaming overhead, home to the rookeries across the fields. Tom can hear them call through the grey stillness.

“I’ve got to be honest with you, mate,” says Chris, quietly. Tom looks up at him. “I didn’t think we’d be back here again, you know?”

“I know,” says Tom, and he does. 

“I mean, with…” He doesn’t say her name. “And India. It’s different now.”

“I know,” says Tom again. Elsa. Elsa and India, and the platinum band around Chris’ finger. “I didn’t make you come here.” He doesn’t mean it glibly, he doesn’t say it with any sharpness. Maybe he lays too much bare, because Chris wraps himself around Tom and kisses his cheek.

“Oh god,” he says. “I know, I didn’t mean that.” He sighs heavily and Tom feels his breath and his beard against his skin. “I just… I didn’t think I’d…”

“Heh,” says Tom. Chris smells the same, and feels the same against his body. He’s muscular and broad and as tall as Tom himself. “But you do.” 

“Yeah,” says Chris. He laughs a little and nuzzles against Tom’s neck. “Yeah, I do.”

“Do you remember,” says Tom, “the first time we did this? In LA, wasn’t it. In your hotel room.”

“I remember.”

_—in the pool on the roof and it was evening and Chris said, look, it looks like the smog is on fire. Tom squinted out across the orange haze towards the sunset and Chris’ shoulder bumped against his, stayed pressed there. As orange turned to blue they took up their towels and went down in the elevator, laughing about something, and Chris put his hand around the small of Tom’s back. Chris opened the door to his room—the keycard didn’t work the first time—he opened it and Tom closed it and before he had even looked up Chris’ hands were on him, gentle hands as big as paws, and he was kissing him. It seemed… obvious. Yes, this is obvious, thought Tom, and wonderful, kissing back—_

“Do you remember the last?” says Chris.

“Which last?” says Tom, and Chris breathes a laugh. There have been a few.

“In Moscow. After the premiere.”

_—in the elevator Robert was singing something familiar, and Susan laughed and called goodnight as the doors slid closed. Chris looked this way and that, the corridor empty now, and slipped into Tom’s room, their winestained mouths crushing together in the dark. Tom didn’t mention the wife somewhere else, her smile, and that bump, that baby about to be born. He didn’t mention the way he had felt the baby kick inside her and it had struck him in that instant that they did that, Chris and Elsa, they made this little living thing together. He had no words but quiet murmurs, come here, yes, yes, god, do that again, Chris, I… yes. Chris held him and fucked him and Tom took care to leave no bruises. His own body would carry purpling fingerprints for some time afterwards._

_This has got to be the last time, said Chris into the darkness._

_I know, said Tom—_

“How could I forget?” he says. He trails his finger over Chris’ chest, leans up on one elbow and looks down at his face. “I didn’t think you’d really say yes, you know, when I said it this time.”

“I missed you,” says Chris.

_—in a bar in Reykjavik he told some story about filming The Avengers, and when he said Chris’ name Zach caught his eye and smiled a little, with a trace of sadness, as if he knew, as if he could tell. The feeling of missing Chris was like a physical weight in his chest. He felt as if he did not dwell quite inside his skin, felt in his mind some kind of abstraction, felt his breath catch when he turned and Chris was not there—_

“I missed you, too.”

They order food and by the time it comes they have the curtains drawn closed and the lights on. Chris lingers in the bathroom as if by accident when the waiter arrives. After they eat, he steps outside and calls Elsa, saying he got out of London for a few days with Tom. By the time he comes back in he’s freezing cold so Tom kisses him hot again. After he speaks to Elsa Chris always wants to lie on his back, his legs up and Tom between them. His forehead is drawn into a frown as if he’s trying to remember why he’s here, so Tom reminds him, again and again, his hand in Chris’ hair and in his mouth the salt taste of sweat. Chris’ knuckles are white when he twists the sheets in his fists.

Later, in the darkness, he breathes steadily and Tom places his hand upon his broad chest, feeling it rise and fall as he drifts into sleep.

He wakes to the sound of the TV turned low and Chris is sitting at the end of the bed. He is flicking aimlessly through the channels. He turns when Tom sits up.

“Sorry,” he says. “Didn’t mean to wake you.”

Tom rubs his eyes. “You didn’t,” he says. He looks at the clock by the bedside. “Nearly ten,” he says. “I think that’s later than I’ve slept in months.”

There’s more lazy sex and breakfast and a long afternoon in each other’s arms. They talk in low voices, and even laugh and joke like they did at the beginning, but underneath all that it feels like another last time. Another last time in a string of last times, every one of them suffused with melancholy, the sense of an ending. The crows stream overhead once more and they pack what little they brought, and they leave in the early dark of evening.

London waits, and the drive that brings them back is too short.

“She’ll be back from Madrid soon,” says Chris, as they near his hotel. It’s beginning to rain and he’s staring out the window.

“I know,” says Tom.

_—back at the beginning, and they were happy, they were having fun. Tom didn’t think he could hide it, the way he lit up around Chris, the way he talked about him. He was smitten and he knew it. Elsa was always there, always a shadow, but in the beginning it seemed too bright for shadows—_

Chris turns to look at him as the car pulls to a stop. He smiles a quick smile, guarded, nothing like the wide and lazy grin of two days ago. “See you tomorrow,” he says.

Tom reaches for his hand. “Yeah,” he says. “Tomorrow.”

A quick squeeze, fingers entwined, and then he’s gone.


End file.
